J. A. Batty
Two Ghosts Two ghosts linger by me Each pulls in a different direction One to the past, one to the end One is cool and soft, soft quiet like new snow Just a sigh left to give The other travels a hard path, sharp stones in my shoes, stumbles in the dark, keys, faces, moments—a river of loss runs from a hole in my never-empty pocket Stillness not a choice Which hand to take?
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